The Pretty Prince of Parties
by cazflibs
Summary: After two years of being Ace, Rimmer revisits the Kinitowawi and takes a trip of the chemical kind.


**This is a random one-shot fic bunny that has been nibbling on my ear since the penultimate chapter of 'Rimmer's Return', where Rimmer advises his nano self:**

_If you chance upon the Blerious region of Dimension 78526, never, __ever _accept an offer of a Chuniker. That is _the _scariest drug trip I've ever been on, I can tell you.

**This fic is heavily inspired by another favourite sitcom of mine - _Flight of the Conchords_, specifically the drug-trip melody, 'Pretty Prince of Parties'. You must must MUST watch the video, very funny. The penultimate line is shamelessly stolen from Danny Wallace. And other elements of Rimmer's drug trip are perhaps inspired by my own experiences. Maybe.**

* * *

A blinding blue flash erupted in the red sky of the Kinitowawi moon of Ngahta, as reality itself parted to make way for a small ship. Although it startled the flocks of birds that had settled in the trees for the evening, casting them forth into flurries of panicked flutters as they flew off into the distance, Chief Khakhak remained unflustered. Instead, a small smile registered underneath the mounds of muddy red, matted fur that blanketed his features.

He had returned.

The ship slowly lowered itself to the ground, sending an orange cloud of dust and sand swirling in a rising circle around the craft. Moments after the ship's engines had ceased, the glass hood of the cockpit yawned back, and a tall, handsome pilot stepped out. He flicked his long, blonde fringe out of his eyes and smiled awkwardly as he strode across the sands towards him.

"Greetings, Ace Rimmer," Chief Khakhak beamed, as Rimmer approached. "It has been many moons since you last joined us."

Rimmer blinked twice in surprise, the edge of his lip twitching in an attempt at a polite smile that tried not to betray his confusion. "Computer?" he mumbled under his breath. "Do the GELFs speak English now?" He remembered all too well his first meeting with the Kinitowawi in his own dimension before he'd become Ace two years before, and was sure that he recalled them conversing in a voice akin to an old, drunk Welsh farmer with a chronic catarrh problem.

"_He's speaking in the local Kinitowawi dialect_," the computer confirmed silently in his mind. "_You're experiencing the Babel programme that I've loaded into your light bee. It's translating for you. Just speak normally, the programme will do the rest._"

Rimmer bit his lip in anticipation as he noticed a few other Kinitowawi tribesmen emerging from the mud huts before him, and with a steadying breath opened his mouth to speak. He began to reply with a generic statement of gratitude at his welcome to the rapidly gathering crowd, yet it took every ounce of self-restraint not to start at the strange, garbled utterances that sprouted forth in its place; his tongue seeming to enunciate expertly around foreign words.

"Neha suntuway mi fatwa," he heard himself say. He knew it to be an alien language, yet the words seemed somehow familiar and laced with meaning.

The chief beamed with pleasure at his retort, brandishing forth a large arm that grabbed him around the shoulders and swept him towards the village. "Let us celebrate your return!" he declared warmly, to the rallying cries of the other Kinitowawi. "Tonight, you are our honoured guest."

A small yet satisfied smile surfaced on Rimmer's face. He could certainly get used to this space hero lark.

The air inside the _watunga, _or 'hut' as his programme translated, was thick with ancient smells; the sweetness of the furs wrapped warmly across his shoulders, the earthiness of the dirt on which they all sat cross-legged, and the rich smokiness of the wood that charred in the fire in the centre of the circle. Rimmer watched as the lazy, white curls of the smoke arched up between them, through the open circular hole in the leather skin of the tent's roof, and out into the now chilly, cloudless sky.

He was drawn back from his musings when the GELF sat to his left introduced himself as Khakhakhak, a name that Rimmer realised actually carried a meaning. _Ray of Light_. He nodded appreciatively.

Khakhakhak poured two large measures of a strange, green liquid into a couple of clay earthenware mugs, passed on the jug so that it continued its journey along the circle, and handed a mug to Rimmer, whilst retaining one for himself.

"Yusanta!" Khakhakhak declared happily, holding his mug aloft to Rimmer before taking a large swig.

Rimmer returned the gesture meekly. "Cheers," he echoed uncertainly before glancing down at the strong-smelling drink in his hand. Under the watchful eye of Khakhakhak, he took a small sip, the pungent alcohol immediately karate-chopping the back of his throat. The warmth seemed to immediately spread white-hot from his chest and resonate outwards, fuzzing his mind. Strong stuff.

The Kinitowawi shook his head in disapproval. "Mutya bhot lekhi - " he mumbled under his breath.

Rimmer returned his gaze with a shocked gasp. "What did you call me?" he demanded. Insults in Kinitowawi were short, yet highly descriptive in their brutality; a goading that could not possibly translate into English and still retain its impact.

Khakhakhak grinned. "I've never met a human who could hold their moonshine," he challenged in a friendly manner, as he closed the gap between them. "And I would wager fifty _nepli_ that neither can the legendary Ace Rimmer."

Rimmer's features and resolve hardened. There was no way that he was losing out to a creature that wouldn't look out of place at a _Harry and the Hendersons _convention. "Alright, mi'laddo!" he announced loudly. He raised the mug in nonchalance. "Bottoms up!"

He threw back as much as he was physically able, and swallowed defiantly; an act in which a hand urgently clamped to his mouth quickly had to counter, as the nauseous threat loomed that the drink would return abruptly against the desired course of nature. The full force of the moonshine hit him quickly, the back of his head suddenly feeling far too heavy and threatening to pull him back to the floor, as the entire world seemed to rush past his face far too swiftly for him to latch onto. He was vaguely aware of a strange, unanimous murmur as the group of GELFs around him reeled him back aurally, like the excited expectancy of a football crowd before a penalty kick. Their group hum grew in pitch and volume until he was back upright, resulting in a celebratory cheer.

Rimmer fixed an unsteady stare at Khakhakhak, the edges of his mouth curled in smug satisfaction. "Churdha hekmat neestan," he replied emphatically, yet with a distinct, slurring edge.

The circle erupted with chiding laughter, a shared mixture of shock and amusement at his biting insult. A pair of elder GELFs sat to Rimmer's right nodded sagely as Khakhakhak recoiled in embarrassment.

"I've heard the same thing said about his mother before," one muttered to the other.

Chief Khakhak wiped a tear from his eye. "This man truly is an honorary member of the Kinitowawi tribe," he managed, to the murmurs of mutual agreement across the circle. "Pass him the _chuniker!"_

Rimmer's brow furrowed in confusion as a large pipe was passed in reverence along the circle of Kinitowawi towards him. For some reason or another, the Babel programme had failed to translate the last word.

"Computer?" he muttered under his breath. "What the smeg is _chuniker?_"

The computer sighed despairingly in his mind. "_It could be a Kinitowawi word for tobacco, but I have no records or references to a substance known as _chuniker_._" She paused thoughtfully. "_I suppose there's no point in me telling you that passing up the offer may be a sound suggestion?_"

Rimmer forced a smile as the one of the elders to his right proffered forth the long, oak pipe; his desperate eyes flitting across the ornate, ancient designs carved into the length of its wood. "Something tells me this is rather sacred - " he hissed melodically through gritted teeth, whilst ensuring that his polite smile remained firmly fixed in place.

"_Then on your head be it!" _The computer sang back mockingly, each word hitting a different note.

Rimmer took the pipe and held it awkwardly between both hands. He'd never been a huge smoker; only enjoying the odd, precious cigarette three million years ago when Engineering exam nerves got the better of him. But at least he knew he wouldn't make a fool out of himself.

He took a steady drag from the pipe, holding it for a moment until it warmed his chest before releasing it into the cold, night air. The smoke left an almost sweet aftertaste in his mouth that left him in teasing need of more. Snatching a glance out at the circle, he noticed that all focus seemed to be on him, the others gesturing encouragingly for him to take another drag, which he did more than obligingly before finally passing it on to Khakhakhak.

Rimmer sighed contentedly allowing the last wisps of smoke to escape his lips, his cultural obligations complete. His eyes began to flit across the hut's interior, his gaze catching strangely on the jagged patterns of the weavings that decorated the dried clay walls. His fingers began to knot impatiently in his lap as he pursed his lips. What did the computer know anyway? He snorted loudly. With her strange, mother-hen-clucking approach, her know-it-all attitude, the way she alwayshadtopointouthismistakes, and -

His mind slowed momentarily, noticing the way that the golden pendant that pinned together the chief's cloak flashed and flickered in the light of the fire, winking at him. That particular moment, that second right _there, _where the white light danced across the yellow surface, was the most precious and beautiful sensation that he had ever experienced.

Amongst the warm, fuzzy contentment that flooded his being, something from the back of his mind stirred for a moment. A memory. He couldn't remember feeling this relaxed, this connected, this _aware _since -

Oh dear. The Titan Mushrooms.

Rimmer's mind slowly began to do the backstroke as his light bee continued its chemical analysis, faithfully replicating the drug's distorted warping of the living human senses. Not that he gave two smegs, he giggled inwardly as he sank backwards to lie down on the earth with a spluttered sigh. Everything else could go to Hades in a rowing boat for all he cared.

And that's when he noticed it. The squirrel that sat on his chest. Its black beady eyes blinking at him quickly as its nose twitched to sniff him.

"Lister?" Rimmer asked carefully.

Indeed, the only giveaway that this was no ordinary squirrel were the miniature black Rasta-plaits that snaked down the back of its head. Rimmer remembered how Lister had spoken of his wish to change places with the squirrel back in the Botanical Gardens on _Red Dwarf_ when Kochanski had first broken up with him.

"You're a squirrel," Rimmer said matter-of-factly, the premise not really bothering him, but more the hypocrisy. "What happened to 'you are what you are'?" he challenged in his old, nasal voice.

The squirrel's large, fluffy tail flicked back and forth defiantly. "Says the man who's now making a living out of pretending to be someone else," Lister chided, in a chipmunk-like parody of his own voice.

Rimmer's features retreated into a scowl. "Tough talk for a rodent, you know."

Lister batted his eyelashes over sickeningly cute eyes. "Aww come on, man. I didn't come here to fight like the old times." He leant forward on tiny clawed paws to whisper to Rimmer conspiratorially. "We received a message of congratulations from Napoleon earlier, commending you on your overall bravery and dedication to duty."

Rimmer blinked in surprise as a jet of air hissed through his teeth. "Well, it's about time," he bristled lightly, trying to hide his excitement. He blinked at Lister unsteadily. "So what's been happening since I left?"

The squirrel shrugged. "The Cat has been enticing out dust bunnies from under his bunk by learning to play the pipes so that he can form his own dance troupe. And Kryten has become a chicken, which doesn't really help with his ironing duties."

"Most inconvenient," Rimmer concurred with a barely-concealed smirk. He gazed out of the hole in the tent above him, blinking lazily as the cool, silvery light bathed his face.

"So what about you? Are you alright?" the squirrel enquired.

Rimmer ignored him, instead extending his arms upwards to feel the chilly night against his palms, the eerie light escaping between his splayed fingers.

The Kinitowawi elder leaning over him shook his head, his hairy features caught between concern and amusement. "Are you alright?" he repeated carefully.

The human below him giggled hysterically, his explanation half-lost. "Ni hatwa metha luna khatnu -" he managed eventually.

The GELF turned back to the others, confused. "I'm uncertain as to whether this human has fully mastered our language," he began slowly. "For he declares that he is trying to tickle the moon."

The next morning, _Wildfire's _memory banks had one more piece of data added to the hundreds of thousands of entries stored in its immense databanks.

The entry read simply - "_Chuniker: Best Avoided."_


End file.
